


Prey

by fuzzybatbutts



Series: Lessons To Be Learned [6]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games), Titanfall (Video Games)
Genre: :), AMAB Bloodhound, Abuse, Alcohol, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Kidnapping, Light BDSM, M/M, Master/Pet, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nonbinary Character, Other, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Content, The Author Regrets Nothing, btw not like pet-play they just call Elliott a pet, miragehound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 09:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19664509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzybatbutts/pseuds/fuzzybatbutts
Summary: As Elliott's mind begins to deteriorate and question what is real, he receives a startling reminder of what still lurks in the shadows.





	Prey

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ!!
> 
> So my beta and I have a discord now!! It's specifically for fans of apex who love dark fiction, so if you like this series it'll be right up your alley!! It was created since I got booted from an apex server for posting noncon so it's to protect us fans who the purity police deem problematic. Nothing is too far and there's specifically a blacklist channel for those of us who love the nastiest of the nasty. :D if the link doesnt cooporate, lemme know and I'll find a way to send it to you ^^  
> https://discord.gg/xNkTyCV
> 
> Thanks again to volatileSoloist for editing this mess and reminding me how much I need to work on my grammar :D jk seriously thank you
> 
> I made this longer hope it makes up for the wait time

“Dude, you look like shit. Full offense.”

“None taken my friend.”

Elliott didn’t need to look up to see the pitying expression that was no doubt on Anita’s face. He could feel it burning holes into the side of his head until she sighed and looked away. Elliott had become a patron of the bar he worked at more nights than he wanted to admit. It felt like a weakness instead of habit, though habit could be seen as weakness too. It made him predictable, easy to track and even easier to ambush should the specter that followed him ever feel the need arise. It didn’t matter though, and he wasn’t delusional enough—even after it had tried to scramble his insides—to pretend like he could evade it. Couldn’t outsmart it, couldn’t run and couldn’t hide, so there was no point in trying to cover his tracks anymore. No point in being afraid to leave the house either. The fog that covered his mind dulled the pangs of fear that shot through his chest whenever he saw a shadow shift, because even that sight had grown old. 

_Even a monster can become mundane if exposed to it often enough, I guess..._

It didn’t matter. It didn’t scare him enough to keep him cowering under his bed when he’d rather be sipping a drink and breathing in the smoky air of the bar. Elliott had been a smoker before he joined the games but he’d had to quit when he’d started getting into shape. His lungs had needed a break from all the ash, and since he was running around dodging grenades or the occasional idiot who had never heard of the concept of muzzle control, he needed all the air he could get. His brothers had almost all smoked, but the group of friends he ran with back on Solace had really gotten him into the habit. He’d never been an addict but it was easier to sit back and shoot the shit with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, back when he could look forward to an evening out. Now it was more about the alcohol, but the long drag he took from the cigarette brought a wave of calm. He’d always loved menthols and the smell of matches and tobacco quickly filling the ashtray in front of him was like incense, relaxing the tension in his shoulders and neck. 

“Look man, you’re starting to depress the hell outta me,” complained Anita as she waved smoke away from her face, “I’m sick of pretending everything is fine, so you gonna tell me what’s wrong or am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

“I’ll pass on having my ass put through the ringer, if it pleases the lady,” Elliott shook his head, voice nearly dripping with sarcasm.

Anita snorted a laugh, “What would please the lady is if you told me why you’re here every night,” her face fell and her voice dropped lower, “What the hell happened to you man? I’ll admit I haven’t known you for long, but I’m not so stupid that I can’t see something isn’t right. What happened to you during the last game? I’ve seen this kind of shock before but only on the guys I used to sleep next to in the barracks.”

Elliott shuddered, the mere mention of the games enough to make him feel cold. The blood, the brains stuck to Bloodhounds boots and the crackling sound the man had made when Bloodhound had crushed his neck. The Apex Games were a bloodsport and his hands were certainly not clean, but there was a difference between shooting someone in the heart and stomping some kid’s head into mush. He’d laughed a little in delirium when they walked out—the gore covering the floor reminded him of the raspberry jam his mother would put on his toast as a kid.

He appreciated Anita’s concern but he was sure she didn’t understand, at least not fully. Anita had seen her fair share of horrible shit during her time with the IMC and he knew that from the stories she’d told him. She seemed like she was made of steel and they never bothered her, but Elliott knew the tags around her neck came with the high price of too many sleepless nights and too many memories that could never be forgotten.

“Awful shit,” Elliott finally admitted, “Awful, horrible, fucked up shit that I can never unsee. Jesus, Anita you should have seen the bodies, there was barely anything _left!_ Between Bloodhound and Caustic it was like walking through sludge except that sludge was melted flesh. I can still smell it and I can’t stop seeing them and hearing the noises everywhere and I ca—” 

Anita squeezed his shoulder, “Easy there tiger, you’re starting to scare the civvies.”

Elliott looked up and was met with a crowd of people glancing at him and darting their eyes away. 

_I must have been yelling…_

“Christ,” he whimpered, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Anita shot an especially withering glare to some young girl who’d just been staring openly and whispering to her friends. She shut her mouth and spun around quickly, and Elliott could hear Anita sigh softly to herself. Leaning on her elbows, she turned back to Elliott and said, “Listen kid, you need to get this the hell out of your system and you need to do it fast: this is the kind of shit that will eat you alive if you let it. I can’t stay here much longer tonight and a public bar isn’t the best place for this conversation, but call me tomorrow and we can talk at my place. I’ll make sure there’s plates to smash just in case.”

Usually Elliott liked her sense of humor, but tonight it fell flat. It wasn’t the fact that she was still trying to make him happy, but that she’d had to keep doing it night after night. They hadn’t really been close friends before the last couple of games, but he’d fought beside her before and they’d shared a certain gallows-style humor in tight situations and a mutual respect for the others skill. He could admire her cool head and strategy, and she admired his ability to improvise when those plans didn’t work out. He was light enough on his feet to weave around her airstrike and she always came back for him when he wasn’t quick enough. He’d asked her out for a drink a few weeks ago and they’d been getting together every few nights to chat and share stories. She hadn’t really known him well before so there was no pressure in trying to act like the ‘old Elliott’ whenever they got together. He didn’t feel like he was lying when his smile wouldn’t reach his eyes, and she usually didn’t ask why if he did a bad job of hiding it. They’d talk about any and everything until he was either drunk and she was laughing at him, or she had to go home to sleep and he’d make fun of her for being a killjoy. It was a nice, much needed distraction for Elliott and since he and Anita had almost the same taste in girls, they got along swimmingly. Their only real argument was that Anita liked shorter girls whereas Elliott was all about long legs and didn’t mind if a girl was taller than him. Though he admitted it was a lot easier for Anita to find anyone shorter than her since she towered over him and made his arms look like twigs. Then again, Anita made most people look small in both stature and presence. 

She always stood ramrod-straight and with eyes scanning the room like a cat, a throwback to her time as a soldier. Shirts were always tight across her back and shoulders and her hands were usually covered in a thin film of gun oil or mystery powders from whatever she’d shot that day. More organized than pretty much anyone else he knew, she had a schedule and usually didn’t like to deviate. He’d gone to a range with her before but hadn’t stood a snowball’s chance in Hell. On weeks off from the games, she competed in every shooting tournament and meet-up she could sign up for, and pretty much always walked away with the prize. The only time he’d seen her lose was because of a hangfire, and that had happened because she refused to continue until the gun was cleared and she’d rechecked it twice. ‘Reliable’ was a good word for Anita, but Elliott preferred ‘determined’: she’d never half-assed anything in her life, and it was a quality he wished he could have for himself. She listened well enough and had no qualms about calling whomever out on their bullshit, and it was pretty funny watching her come up with new and interesting names to call the assholes who had the guts to talk down to her. What was even more funny was how pale they got when she stood up and stared them down without flinching. He was happy he’d been ballsy enough to call her even if for no other reason initially than it wasn’t very fun drinking alone, but the pure entertainment of her talking circles around whatever jackass decided to mess with her was definitely a bonus. He’d nearly choked on his drink laughing when she’d crushed some poor bastard’s dream of seducing her, and had fallen out of his chair when she walked away that night with the next girl he’d tried to impress. 

Managing a weak smile and trying not to think of how the cracked dishes would crunch the same way the skull had, he nodded in agreement. “I’ll call you when I wake up. We can figure out when to meet up from there I guess.”

Anita clapped a hand on his shoulder and tossed back the rest of her drink. She gave a final, reassuring squeeze before throwing her coat back on and waved as she walked through the door. Elliott turned back to the bar and waved the bartender over. They filled his glass without a word, sensing the tension in the air and wanting no part of it. People seemed to have a way to sense that there was something not quite right with him, though he felt enough like an outsider without their help. Everyone was milling around laughing and drinking and acting like all was right within the world when everything had fallen apart. 

He envied Anita for her composure despite everything she’d been through. Day by day it seemed his life was deteriortating, starting with his memory. It hadn’t been too noticeable in the beginning, just minor things like forgetting where he put things or not being able to recall conversations. He’d noticed he was spacing out more often; sometimes to the point of zoning out in the middle of a conversation and not hearing a word. He’d forget small everyday tasks even if he put up reminders everywhere—they didn’t do much except cover his wall in bits of paper since he’d forget to read them and remind himself. A now-constant fog clouded his mind, and thinking was becoming more and more of an impossible endeavor with every day that crawled on by. It had gotten to a point where he’d be talking to someone on the street and then have seemingly teleported back to his apartment in the time it took him to blink. He’d heard of similar things happening to soldiers where their brains would block out painful memories and put them in a kind of amnesia, something he wished he’d be fortunate enough to experience. 

The memory loss and brain fog might have made the events hazy but they did nothing to quell the stirring in his guts whenever he’d think of it. In a perfect world he’d have been able to forget them entirely and move on.

_Unfortunately I can’t be that lucky…_

He barely noticed when the bartender poured him a shot beside the whiskey glass. He nodded a silent thank you and coughed when the alcohol seemed to burn a little more than usual.

A part of him whispered that he’d just dreamt it all up and he was taking it too seriously, but the scars he carried put those thoughts to bed without so much as a pause. Denial was a powerful tool, although when faced with enough physical evidence, it had to be brushed off. They ached incessantly and despite being healed for weeks he swore he could feel his bones breaking and skin tearing all over again whenever he saw them. Some were clearly defined and others he wasn’t entirely sure anymore when exactly he’d gotten them. Had the bullet holes come first? Or was it the lump of scar tissue on his hand? The scar on his nose, had it come from his face being smashed against a rock, or had it already been there? The hoarseness in his voice, had it come from him screaming? The pure agony of that gas in his eyes and seeping into the wound on his side had torn choked cries from his chest and his throat felt like it had been shredded in the process. Or maybe it was just the chain smoking catching up to him?

Elliott groaned and pushed his face into his hands, frustrated with his own mind. There were too many nightmares to sift through and it took too long to separate them into what was real and what the horrors his brain cooked up every night were. Every scar and every memory of the arena brought with it a feeling of sickness that threatened to swallow him if he wasn’t constantly fighting against it, and he was just so tired. Images of those glass eyes flashed across his vision, and he dug his fingernails into his arms to focus. Pain was the best distraction when the flashbacks would happen, but it didn’t help him sort out what was reality and what was just a series of increasingly bad dreams. The bar was too full for his liking now and the air was thick. It was too hot, too many faces in a crowd, and too many faces meant he couldn’t see them coming. Whatever they where, Elliott at least remembered how they could seemingly materialize from thin air. A wave of panic turned his blood to ice and he shivered despite the stuffy heat of the crowd. His heart was beating too fast, reacting to the fear and screaming at him to get out. Get out and go somewhere safe--though Elliott knew in his core ‘safe’ was a luxury he no longer had. It took all his willpower to not break down and sob in front of the bartender, and he pushed it all down until he collected his bearings enough to throw some money on the counter and stumble out. He mumbled apologies as he knocked against patrons shoulders and crushed their feet under his boots. 

He sucked the fresh night air into his lungs and leaned against the wall of the bar. The heat had started to make him dizzy and his knees wobbled uncontrollably. The brick dug into his hand as he leaned on it for support, slowly pushing his way forward down the street. When it broke off into an alleyway he stumbled and threw himself against the shadowed wall as a last-ditch effort to keep himself upright. It was early enough in the morning that the streets were empty, but Elliott doubted anyone would try to help some drunken idiot scrambling around in an alley anyway. 

_Jesus, maybe I did drink too much…_

But... Elliott knew how he reacted to alcohol and it had never been like this. He’d get boisterous and it was even harder to shut up him than when he was sober. Everyone was his friend and he was all terrible jokes and laughter, but this wasn’t any of that. His heart was racing, pounding so loud the blood in his ears roared and smothered any outside noise. Something was making his stomach twist and churn so violently he dropped to the ground when he started seeing double. The hope of being able to stand again was dashed when his legs went numb and stopped responding all together. He shook with every frantic beat of his heart and gasped but no air entered his lungs. Once, his brothers had held him under the water in a pool for too long and he’d nearly blacked out. It was the same crushing feeling and with every breath it grew, until it felt like his chest would collapse. 

_What the fuck is this? Am I… am I going to die?_

Nothing around him stirred and he didn’t have the energy to call for help. It had all been sapped and left him barely able to lift his head to turn towards the entrance of the alley. The harsh yellow light of the lamp posts stabbed at his eyes and he turned away with a hiss of pain. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, and a small voice broke through the cacophony of his mind screaming that he needed to fight, that he needed to stay awake. But that tiredness that had begun to follow him in his day to day life was demanding his answer it, and the last voice he heard was his own, barely audible behind the cries of his body. 

_Maybe… maybe now I can be safe..._

-

A searing headache brought Elliott back to reality as the pain tinged the corner of his vision red. His eyes burned trying to adjust to the light in the room, aching in a way that put pressure behind his sinuses and piled a new kind of agony onto the headache. There was a harsh, bitter taste on his tongue, but it was so dry that swallowing felt like he’d rubbed sandpaper down his windpipe. He screwed his mouth into a grimace, which only pulled at his dry lips and made them crack open. Out of habit he went to wipe the blood away from his mouth, and was met with confusion when he couldn’t pull his arm towards him. Tugging it only tightened whatever was wrapped around his wrists, which felt raw and sore. 

_What the fuck…_

Piecing his thoughts together was a grueling task as he pushed through the fog in his brain. Without opening his eyes he could feel rough bindings around his wrists and ankles, pulling his legs apart and trapping his arms helplessly above his head. He could feel the cool air across his chest that made his skin prickle and goosebumps rise across his limbs. The only cloth he could feel was nestled behind him and what felt like his boxers brushing against his thighs. The gravity of the situation sunk into his chest as he realized he couldn’t move and the soft thing behind his back must have been a blanket. 

_I’m… tied to a bed?_

He tried again to open his eyes with more success than the last time. Some kind of light fixture hung above him and the ceiling sloped upwards away from him. He couldn’t move his head much but it was enough that he could see towards his feet. He was wearing nothing except his underwear and the rope around his ankles kept them from moving together, leaving him exposed. He’d been right about the bed too, with his feet tied to the bedposts and hands to the headboard. Seeing the bindings however, wasn’t what caught his eye.

The person in the room was what made him freeze. 

Their skin was ghastly pale and looked like it would be more at home on a corpse than a living person standing at the edge of the bed. Scars riddled the thick flesh of their arms, visible even from a distance as they rippled when the muscles moved under their skin. But even that wasn’t the most outlandish part of the person before him. 

Blue bundles of wire were threaded into their arms like little glowing snakes. They weaved in and back out, all the way up to their shoulders, and jutted out every couple of inches. They didn’t sit in straight lines, but zigzagged and crossed over each other until it reached their collarbones. The white undershirt was tight across their chest and left very, very little to the imagination. He could see some of the wires from under the shirt and how they twisted upwards into their neck. Some of them seemed to be tubes that carried a blue liquid up into where their jugular was supposed to be. Their broad shoulders made them seem even more imposing and they loomed over him, covering him in shadow. Their cheeks and jaw were uncovered, but a new mask kept the top part of their face a mystery still. Familiar smoked glass covered their eyes and the black metal that surrounded it dipped off the nose and sat just above their cheekbones. The metal had no shine to it, and rose above their eyes to cover a large portion of their forehead. It looked like it had been shaped for the contours of their face, not like something they’d crafted by hand. Icy blonde, nearly silver hair brushed the top of the mask and flipped and curled in random directions on their head. There was a hollow in their cheeks and their face was as paper white as the rest of them. That telltale deep set scar across their lips dashed any hopes he had that this was going to turn out okay, that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst possible outcome. It carved a line up into the mask that reminded him of cracks in a marble statue. The skin looked thin and pulled too tight, the blue liquid visible even under it. 

“Oh Kærr,” they purred, “You look so dreadful when you frown like that.”

Regardless of whatever accent they had, it was still unmistakable. The rolled r’s that almost sounded like a trill, the vowels that seemed heavy in their mouth. Without the mouthpiece muffling their words, it was easier to make out, but it just made them sound more dangerous. It wasn’t a deep voice, yet it had a certain, almost regal quality. It oozed confidence, and held a mocking tone as they smiled down at him— but Elliott didn’t feel comfortable calling it a smile when it more closely resembled a dog bearing its teeth than anything remotely human. 

_With all those tubes can I even call them that?_

Elliott opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by a wave of their hand. “Tsk tsk Elliott, I thought you would have known by now to listen to my instructions.” They spoke with their hands, gesturing to emphasize their words, “I thought you brighter than that, but I am wrong.”

With an almost catlike grace they walked slowly, purposefully, from the end of the bed towards Elliott’s head. For their size, it was unexpected that rather than a stride it was more of a sway. Their fingers trailed along the sheets as they moved and Elliott didn’t want to imagine what they’d do to him if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He’d already felt them digging around in his guts and was more than happy to avoid ever experiencing a pain like that again. Closer and closer they walked and with every step his heart rate shot up higher until he could feel it pounding again in his chest. Bloodhound knelt down next to his head so their mouth was level with Elliott’s ear. Warm air tickled his neck as they whispered, “So I decided to come here and teach you properly. That way there will not be any more mistakes. Understand?”

Elliott nodded his head but bit down on his tongue to contain the barrage of questions threatening to spill out. Something about the way they spoke came across as formal, a trait he’d only seen in people who’d learned English as a second language. He still couldn’t place the accent and he’d never heard of whatever modifications they had in their body. He’d competed against champions with modified limbs or robotic pieces to replace amputations, but this looked much more complicated. Elliott wasn’t a doctor or any kind of professional in biomechanics, but he knew enough that the tubes in their neck looked like they were replacing the main arteries, despite being outside of the skin. They dipped back into their flesh and from this close he could see the blue fluid running up both sides. Wherever the tubes emerged, they were surrounded by a ring of raised purple scars. When they saw him staring, they met his eyes and stared him down. Their presence electrified the air around him, and their gaze alone was unnerving enough that he started fidgeting in an attempt to pull away.

“Ah, you look uncomfortable,” they chuckled, “but the amount of time you are bound is entirely in your hands Kærr. It is not the most comfortable I know. Though you have not been one to learn quickly, so it seems you may have to deal with it longer.” 

With a sigh they stood back up to their full, menacing height and looked down at him, amusement plain in their face. “I will make this simple. You have rules to follow. Until you learn them and obey, I will punish you in whatever way I choose until the lesson sticks.” The smile shifted to a leer, “And I am not known to be gentle, Kærr. Be grateful I have room in my heart for you, but do not test my patience. My generosity will only go so far.” 

Beads of sweat had started forming on Elliott’s forehead as he listened intently, afraid to miss a single word and suffer the consequences. Triggered by their warnings, the scars and bruises over his body began to ache again, reminding him of what awaited him if he failed. If Bloodhound had considered that gentle, he didn’t know if he could handle the full punishment. 

_Fuckfuckfuckfuck…. God please someone get me out of here..._

And yet an undeniable heat, despite the threats being laid out, had crept into his belly and he hated himself for it. Being tied down and completely helpless with a monster like this holding the reins was turning him on no matter how much he tried to fight it. Before the arena he’d have dreamed about something like this, but now the danger was far too real and he felt he wouldn’t escape unscathed. The commands didn’t help matters either, and although Elliott had no idea what trauma they’d inflict, the masochist in him was excited—whether he wanted to be or not. It was maddening to not feel in control of his own body, but the pull felt good enough he considered for a moment to just let it happen. It would be easier for him to worry about the situation later, and for the time being he could pray it was, as usual, all just a bad dream.

Bloodhound noticed him getting hard through his boxers, and smiled down at him again. They traced their fingers up the inside of his thigh and over the shaft and Elliott bit his lip hard to stop from gasping. The touch was impossibly light and just enough that he could feel the strokes, but they were fleeting and the break in-between each touch just made the next more intense. They never lasted long enough, and it took what little self control he had to not push his hips against their hand. 

“The rules are simple,” said Bloodhound as they ran torturous circles just beneath the tip, “First, is speak only when spoken to.”

“Second,” they said as their fingers moved ever so slightly upwards to brush the head, “You do not touch me unless commanded.”

 _Commanded_. It was such a strong word that robbed him of any idea that he might be able to have some modicum of freedom in whatever hell he’d found himself in. 

“Third,” they grinned as they watched him shiver, “No flinching. No drawing back. If I am hurting you, it is because you deserve it, so accept it. If you do pull away, I will do it until you stop, and I will make it much worse.”

“Fourth,” their strokes were getting more insistent and their fingers ran the whole length, “When I ask, you answer. When I tell you to do something, you do it. If you do not, you will learn that I do not like to ask twice.” 

There was no sliver of doubt in Elliott’s mind that they weren’t exaggerating. A dash of fear streaked across his heart, speaking of all the horrors he imagined they could inflict. What if it was something disgusting? What if it was humiliating? How much pain could he take and what the hell would happen if he couldn’t bear it anymore? 

“Fifth,” they sounded pleased with themself and spoke like they could read his thoughts, “I do not care if it is too much. You will learn to love it, in the end.” Their hand curled to brush the sides of his cock while they palmed the head.

“Finally,” they smirked as they watched Elliott tremble, “This is less of a rule and more a reminder, but screaming will not save you. In fact,” they leaned closer to him and lowered their voice, “You will find I quite enjoy it.” 

Each word they spoke only fed the fire growing and Elliott shuddered as the sensation grew. The build-up from the soft touches had left every inch of him overstimulated and the strokes were almost too much for him to handle. He caught himself in the reflection of the glass, spread out, shaking and helpless but enjoying himself far too much. The look on his face was shame mixed with ecstasy. He pushed his head back into the mattress and arched his back, wanting more and for the painful teasing to finally end. 

“So Kærr, now that you know my rules, let us test your understanding.” They moved closer still and put their lips back to his ear, and whispered so softly, so gently it almost seemed loving. 

“Come for me.”

The words were his undoing and it was a merciful demand he was more than happy to obey. He unclenched his jaw and let out all the cries of pleasure he’d been working to keep buried. It was embarrassing how loud he moaned from such a small act done to him, but the look on Hound’s face showed they couldn’t care less. It consumed him and for a moment he forgot the horror of the situation he was in. He didn’t care about the circumstances or that the person toying with him had shoved their fingers into a bullet hole in his side or had sunken their teeth into his flesh. His muscles tightened and he pulled against the restraints involuntarily, unable to control his body until the waves stopped washing over him. The tension left his body and he sagged while he tried to catch his breath and come down from the high. Their hand moved to his hip and the final brush of their fingertips wrung one last whimper from his lips. 

Bloodhound looked pleased with their handiwork as they planted a soft kiss on Elliott’s forehead, not showing if they cared when he sighed contently. They gingerly brushed a stray lock of hair that had fallen in his eyes and smiled as they spoke, “Good boy.” 

Without another word, they straightened up and walked towards a door he hadn’t seen, set into the far wall. He watched them go, but was overcome with a sudden hit of exhaustion. The bed was comfortable; he only wished he had a blanket to curl up under and a pillow to rest his head on. They flicked off the light in the room and closed the door, which creaked the whole way.

Elliott made a promise to himself that he would worry about his situation tomorrow even if he was certain it was just another dream. When sleep took him, it was dreamless and deep, and more restful than any he’d had for weeks.

  


**Author's Note:**

> My excuse this time is I have been on a Yu-gi-oh binge these past like 3 weeks and it's making me want to write stuff for that except not because I don't know if I want to sink to the level of writing fuckin Yu-gi-oh fan fiction but like it wouldn't be the cringiest thing I've ever written sooooo. I adore height differences in my pairings and Seto is very tall and Atem is not so it's right up my alley basically. Also everyone thinks Seto is a bottom and I personally need to rectify that because that's my god damn job as a fan fiction writer. (im not even done season one help me)
> 
> Anywho sorry this is incredibly late. All my writing time is going towards my non-fan fiction projects and editing a beast of a story I wrote like 4 years ago, but I'm not abandoning this!! I have exciting stuff planned I promise :D 
> 
> Thank you for being patient and extra thank you to the people who leave comments because y'all are saints.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Too Easy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20437136) by [HardTack (volatileSoloist)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/volatileSoloist/pseuds/HardTack)




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